Yesterday, 04:54 PM
(CHAPTER CONTD)
ONE MORNING
The world swam into focus with a sickening lurch. Hemant’s head pounded, a dull ache behind his eyes. He wasn't in his bed. The salt-tinged air was wrong—thicker, heavier, laced with the scent of frangipani instead of the familiar urban brine of Mumbai. He pushed himself up, sheets tangled around his legs, and stared at the unfamiliar french doors leading to a balcony. Beyond, a coastline curved, wild and palm-fringed. Goa.
His heart stuttered.
He swung his legs out, the cool marble floor shocking his bare feet. He turned, and his breath caught. The photos. They were on the wall beside a dresser. Sonarika, her laughter caught in a frozen moment, her head thrown back. And Vikram, his arm possessively around her waist, both of them sun-kissed and smiling in some beachside shack. The same photo from Vikram’s Instagram, the one Hemant had stared at until his vision blurred. It was here. Mocking him. A monument to his failure.
A low, feminine giggle drifted from deeper within the villa. Her laugh. A sound that once lit up his world now sent a spear of ice through his gut. He moved as if pulled by a sinister string, his feet silent on the floor. The hallway opened into a spacious living area, and beyond that, an open gallery faced the roaring sea. And there he was.
Vikram.
Lounging in a low-slung chair, his legs propped on the gallery railing, wearing nothing but a pair of tight red boxers. The same arrogant, relaxed posture from the Bali picture. He was gazing at the horizon, a satisfied sigh leaving his lips as a small smile played on them. Hemant stood frozen, but Vikram showed no reaction. He was a ghost here.
The click of a door. Hemant’s head snapped to the right.
The bathroom door opened, and steam billowed out, carrying her scent—jasmine and vanilla. Sonarika stepped out, a vision that shattered him anew. She wore only a large, crumpled linen shirt, clearly Vikram’s. It drowned her frame, the hem brushing her mid-thigh, but the damp fabric clung to every curve, outlining the swell of her breasts, the peak of her nipples, the dip of her waist. Her dark hair was wet, trailing over her shoulders. A soft, sated smile was on her lips, her eyes fixed with adoration on the man on the gallery.
She walked right past Hemant, close enough to touch, and didn’t even glance his way.
"Still seeing stars from last night" she murmured, her voice husky as she approached Vikram.
Vikram turned, his smile widening.
"Is that so?"
She leaned into him, and he effortlessly pulled her onto his lap, her legs straddling him. The shirt rode up, exposing the smooth skin of her thighs.
"Mmm. I can still feel you" she whispered, nuzzling his neck.
"I can still feel your cum inside me. I might be risking a pregnancy, you know"
Vikram’s hands slid under the shirt, palms smoothing over her bare back.
"It’s not a risk, Sonarika. It’s a promise. I want my seed to grow in you. I want to see you round with our child"
Hemant’s knees threatened to buckle. He watched, invisible and ignored, as his wife settled more comfortably on her lover’s lap, a intimate shift of her hips.
"And Karan?" Sonarika asked, a trace of hesitation in her voice.
"He’s part of you, so he’s welcome. But a child… our child…"
Vikram’s voice dropped to a possessive rumble.
"That will bind you to me in a way nothing else can"
Sonarika laughed, a low, thrilling sound.
"You did more than a decent job last night if that was your plan"
"The plan" Vikram said, his hands tightening on her
"Isn’t done yet"
In one fluid motion, he stood, holding her easily in that straddling position, her legs wrapped around his waist. He carried her, her laughter mixing with the crash of waves, away from the gallery and towards the bedroom. Hemant followed, a prisoner to his own torment.
Vikram laid her gently on the wide, rumpled bed. He stood over her, his gaze hungry. With deliberate slowness, he began undoing the buttons of the shirt she wore. One. Two. Three. The fabric fell open, revealing her naked body, still glistening with droplets from her shower.
A low groan escaped Vikram. He didn’t wait. He descended, his mouth latching onto one peaked nipple, sucking it deep into the heat of his mouth.
"Mmmhmmmm!"
Sonarika gasped, her back arching off the bed. Her hands flew to his head, fingers tangling in his hair.
"Yes…suck it baby....I wish I was lactating right now!"
Hemant watched, nausea and rage warring in his throat, as Vikram worshipped her body. His mouth moved from one breast to the other, sucking, licking, nipping with a fervor Hemant had never possessed. Sonarika writhed beneath him, her whimpers and moans painting the air, a symphony of pleasure that was a dagger in Hemant’s soul. Vikram’s hands were everywhere—kneading her breasts, skimming down her ribs, gripping her hips.
Finally, Vikram stood, shucking his red boxers in one impatient motion.
Hemant’s eyes were dragged downward. His dick. Thick, heavy, and already fully erect, it stood proudly against Vikram’s abdomen. A brutal, undeniable truth. It was bigger. Much bigger. A hollow understanding opened inside Hemant. Of course.
Vikram positioned himself between Sonarika’s splayed thighs. He used the head of his cock to tease her, spreading the slickness he found there, circling her clit until she was begging,
"Please, Vikram… now"
He pushed forward.
Hemant saw it in agonizing detail. The broad crown pressed, stretched, and then disappeared into her, inch by relentless inch. Sonarika’s groan was one of profound satisfaction, her head pressing back into the pillows, eyes fluttering shut.
"Ahhhh… you stretch me so full…"
Then Vikram began to move. No gentle buildup. This was a claiming. He set a deep, punishing rhythm from the start, his hips pistoning, driving into her with a force that made the bedframe creak. Each thrust was a full-body commitment, his muscular back and buttocks clenching with the effort.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
The wet, rhythmic sound of their joining filled the room, underscored by the relentless crash of his balls against her skin. Hemant could only stare, his own body cold, as his wife was taken with a raw, animalistic passion she had never shown him.
"Fuck, you feel incredible"
Vikram grunted, his pace never faltering. Sonarika’s moans climbed higher, becoming screams that she bit into her own fist.
"hgghh.....hgghhh....It’s… it’s going to be a girl...hghhh"
Vikram moaned, his thrusts becoming erratic, deeper.
"Ahhh.....ahhh....W-what?" Sonarika panted, her hips meeting his with equal ferocity.
"gghhhh....hhghh....The baby......Our baby.....It’ll be a girl....rrghhh....ghhhh"
"Ahh....No" Sonarika gasped, her eyes flying open to lock with his.
"Mhmmm......ahhhmm......its a boy…....as handsome as his father.....ahhhh"
Vikram slammed into her, a final, brutal drive that buried him to the hilt. He held there, his entire body rigid.
"hghh......hhggg......Doesn’t matter…whoever it is.....… will be beautiful because it will be our's......hgghhh.....nngghh......"
Hemant saw it happen. He saw Vikram’s buttocks clench tight, saw the thick vein on his shaft pulse violently. A guttural, triumphant roar tore from Vikram’s throat as he came. Hemant could almost see it—the hot, copious surge of semen traveling up that thick length and pumping deep into Sonarika’s womb. Claiming her. Fertilizing her. Making the fantasy they’d whispered about a tangible, liquid reality right before his eyes.
Vikram collapsed on her, spent, but kept himself buried inside her.
"Can’t wait to be a parent" He mumbled into her neck.
Sonarika wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding him tight.
"Can’t wait to be pregnant with your child"
A raw, wounded sound ripped from Hemant’s chest. A wail of absolute desolation. He fell to his knees, the world dissolving into black nothingness around the image of their entangled, satisfied bodies.
Hemant spasmed awake, a choked gasp tearing from his throat.
He was in his bed. His bed. In the stark, silent master bedroom of his new villa at Silver Beach, Mumbai. Morning light streamed through his own windows. The air was still, empty.
He was alone.
He touched his face. His cheeks were wet with dried, salty tracks. He had been crying in his sleep.
For a long time, he just lay there, the ghost-sounds of her pleasure and their promises echoing in the hollow of his skull. The dream played on a loop behind his eyes—Vikram’s powerful thrusts, Sonarika’s ecstatic face, the vulgar, intimate slap of skin, the final, devastating release.
Slowly, he pushed himself up. He walked to the expansive bathroom, its surfaces cold and impersonal. He faced the mirror.
The man who stared back had red-rimmed eyes, shadowed with pain. But as he looked, as the dream’s venom coursed through him, something shifted. The fragility in his own gaze burned away, scorched by a new, cold fire. He saw the definition in his shoulders, the result of punishing months at the gym. The hard line of his jaw. This was his body now. Not the body of a cuckolded husband, but a weapon he had forged in his private hell.
The weakness was a relic. The heartbreak was fuel.
A grim, determined calm settled over him. Sonarika would not get to write the end of his story. Her betrayal, her lover, the ghost of the life they’d planned… they were chapters he was closing.
He splashed cold water on his face, washing away the last of the dream-tears. He picked up his phone, his movements deliberate. He scrolled to a contact saved from a lifetime ago, when he got a taste of the elite lifestyle of the city.
Roxy. The call connected on the second ring.
"Morning, Mr.Kumar" Roxy said, voice smooth as aged whiskey. Hemant didn’t waste time.
"I need an appointment....for a makeover" he said, calm and certain.
"Makeover?"
"Yeah , an overhaul for the Elite circle. Make me at my best presentation"
"Hell yes. I am really looking forward to work with you soon!"
Roxy laughed, intrigued, and booked him an appointment for the morning in few hours.
Mumbai welcomed him with its unapologetic chaos as Hemant stepped into Roxy’s parlour, a posh sanctuary tucked into the city’s beating heart. Glass, steel, and velvet—every surface spoke of reinvention. Roxy was already prepared: racks of tailored jackets, trays of accessories, a palette of colors that promised dominance rather than decoration.
"So tell me Mr.Kumar...what do you expect from the makeover?"
"I want you to enhance whatever qualities I have in my appearance. And make me the point of everyone's eyes. You used to say I had the charm of the best celebrities....so make me one!"
Hemant said, meeting Roxy’s eyes in the mirror. There was no arrogance in his tone—only inevitability. Roxy’s grin widened.
"Say no more" he replied, already circling him like a sculptor assessing stone.
The scissors moved with intent. Hair fell away, disciplined and refined, then reshaped into something sharper. A rough auburn dye was layered in—subtle but commanding, catching the light like burnished copper. Hemant’s physique emerged clean and undeniable, the posture of a man who had once been a peak sportsman and remembered exactly how it felt to own space.
Roxy finished with a final adjustment and stepped back, whistling low.
"I recommend you to avoid Bollywood parties" he said, half-joking, half-serious.
"Because if Aditya Chopra spots you in one of those parties. He might launch you at his next big project!"
Hemant smiled, slow and confident, seeing himself anew—not reborn, but reclaimed. As he walked out into Mumbai’s pulse, the city seemed to acknowledge him. The past no longer clung to his shoulders; it sharpened his stride. Hemant Kumar wasn’t running from heartbreak—he was rising above it, dressed for conquest, ready for the chapter where nothing was taken from him again.
THAT AFTERNOON
The country club felt heavier at noon, as if the sun pressed down not with warmth but with expectation. Hemant sat alone beneath a cream umbrella, a glass of untouched iced water sweating beside him. This place had once been effortless—laughter, teasing glances, afternoons that drifted into evenings. Now it was a stage without its co-star.
He had frequented this club with Pranitha. Oddly enough at this moment , he definitely missed her , given his circumstances. Pranitha wasn’t here yet. She was still in Amsterdam, commitments binding her to runways and boardrooms, continents away from the gravity of his silence.
Hemant scrolled through his phone, thumb moving on instinct. Media sites bloomed across the screen—Pranitha at a fashion event, radiant and assured, standing beside actress Alia Bhatt. Cameras loved them both. Her own profile echoed the same story: smiles, champagne flutes, a world spinning forward without him. Hemant was aware about her 'exotic' life. He remembered the old rumors , of how Pranitha was involved with a famous actress. And now seeing her upclose images with Alia made his mind go to a place that made up images in his head for few moments. He exhaled slowly, a dull ache settling in his chest. Even Pranitha, the one presence that had softened the edges of his days, was gone for now. Tamanna has taken Shraddha to a vacation trip to Germany. Leaving Hemant alone in his own sufferings.
His mind played with him next, dragging him back into familiar nightmares. Sonarika appeared, as she always did in his dreams, never alone. Vikram was there too—too real, too close. Every dream stitched them tighter together, as if his subconscious refused to grant him the mercy of distance.
Hemant rose and walked toward the exterior deck, overlooking the city. The club’s massive swimming pool shimmered under the sun. Once, long ago and not far enough away, he had met Pranitha here, a sight he can never forget as she was in a bikini, bold and grace. Today, a young couple occupied the water, playful and intimate, their ease cutting deeper than any insult.
His mind twisted the scene without warning. The couple’s faces blurred, reshaped, and suddenly it was Vikram and Sonarika in the pool. He heard Vikram’s voice clearly now.
"Priya" he said casually.
"What?" Sonarika turned, confused.
"If we have a girl, I want to name her Priya" Vikram smiled.
Sonarika’s face softened, and she asked.
"And if it’s a boy?"
Vikram shrugged.
"Hadn’t thought about it. You tell me" She paused, then said quietly.
"Akash. I’ve liked that name for a while. It suits you—dashing, bold"
Vikram laughed, pulling her closer.
"I wanted a girl" he said.
"But Akash isn’t bad. Let him be free and dedicated like his mother"
Sonarika kissed him, sunlight fracturing around them.
The vision snapped apart. The pool was just a pool again. The couple were strangers. Hemant’s hands gripped the railing as he realized he had hallucinated the entire exchange, his mind filling in a future he feared but could no longer deny.
Standing there, facing the skyline, the visions didn’t feel like torture anymore. They felt prophetic. Sonarika would move to Goa soon. She would live that life—sunlit, complete, unburdened by the wreckage she left behind. It would become real for her.
Hemant wiped his eyes quickly, embarrassed by tears no one was watching him shed. The city sprawled endlessly before him, indifferent and alive. His mind forged a future, Sonarika would build a perfect life with her new man. And he—Hemant Kumar—would be left to assemble meaning from the fragments of family still standing, carrying the weight of a love that hadn’t survived, and a future that suddenly felt very, very quiet.
FEW HOURS LATER AT YOD INDUSTRIES
YOD Industries felt different that afternoon—alive in a way Hemant hadn’t noticed in weeks. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his corner office, glinting off steel models of armored vehicles and framed patents lining the walls. His phone buzzed softly on the desk. Kamya’s monthly progress report. He opened it, scanning numbers that didn’t just look good—they looked historic.
Revenue curves were climbing at a near-vertical angle. The defense manufacturing wing was surging, the newly built weaponized ATVs drawing praise for their agility and modular fire systems. The BTRs YOD had recently submitted were being spoken of in briefings, not just reports—quiet admiration from the Indian Army, the kind that meant repeat orders. Supply chains had expanded, new vendors onboarding weekly, demand pushing harder than projections had dared to assume. For the first time in days, Hemant leaned back and smiled without forcing it.
Another notification followed, this one carrying more weight. ANVIL. He read the message twice, then a third time. YOD’s latest invention—the EMP-protected digital visor helmets—had not only impressed the private military contractor, but had caught the attention of BLACKROCK, a global defense giant , the very corporation that was responsible for his second birth. They planned to formally brand the product with YOD’s name. Not a subcontract. Not a footnote. A signature. YOD Industries, etched permanently into a flagship defense product.
There was a knock at the door before the thought could fully settle. Vaibhav and Kamya walked in first, both wearing expressions they clearly couldn’t hide. Behind them came Raquel, poised and smiling, confidence following him in his tailored jacket. All three greeted him at once, warmth filling the room. Hemant noticed the energy immediately. This wasn’t routine good news—this was celebration-level good.
He raised an eyebrow, amused.
"What's the occasion?"
Before anyone else could answer, Raquel stepped forward, eyes bright.
"Bhaijaan..." he said, voice proud
"The May cover of Fortune magazine is out"
He placed the magazine on his desk and gently slid it toward him. Hemant’s breath caught—not in shock, but in recognition. The image stared back at him: sharp, composed, powerful. The photoshoot from weeks ago, another one of Roxy’s vision executed to perfection. He looked regal, commanding, dressed in a business vest over a tieless satin shirt, striped vest and pants cutting a silhouette that spoke of authority without apology. And above it all, in bold lettering, a tagline that felt like a verdict rather than marketing:
A NEW KING ON THE RISE.
He flipped through the pages slowly. The article traced YOD’s journey from its fragile beginnings—him, a former IT professional daring to cross into weapons manufacturing—to its evolution into security appliances, advanced defense systems, and now global relevance. But the focus wasn’t just the company. It was him. His discipline. His resilience. His refusal to stay confined to one identity. An empire in the making, rooted deep, engineered to last.
Hemant closed the magazine and looked up.
"None of this" he said calmly.
"Exists without the people who believed in it" He gestured around the room.
"My workers. My engineers. My partners. And my clients—who trusted us before we had proof"
Kamya laughed softly.
"Sir" she said.
"This is your moment , not YODs. I think this time the recognition should be yours”
Vaibhav nodded in agreement.
"Thank you for that" Hemant replied, a faint smirk breaking through.
"But I was confident and resiliant enough because I had a good set of people I can keep my faith around with"
Raquel smiled wider.
"Bhaijaan, you’ve brought out your best part for the world to see. This cover proves it. YOD isn’t just a weapons company anymore"
Hemant stood and walked toward the far end of the office, where a cloth-covered frame rested against the wall. With a single motion, he pulled it away. Beneath it, bold and unmistakable, was a new banner—clean lines, modern typography, undeniable intent:
YOD ENTERPRISE
He turned back to them, eyes steady, conviction unshaken.
"We’ve outgrown the old definition" he said.
"This is our next chapter!"
(CHAPTER TO BE CONTD)
The world swam into focus with a sickening lurch. Hemant’s head pounded, a dull ache behind his eyes. He wasn't in his bed. The salt-tinged air was wrong—thicker, heavier, laced with the scent of frangipani instead of the familiar urban brine of Mumbai. He pushed himself up, sheets tangled around his legs, and stared at the unfamiliar french doors leading to a balcony. Beyond, a coastline curved, wild and palm-fringed. Goa.
His heart stuttered.
He swung his legs out, the cool marble floor shocking his bare feet. He turned, and his breath caught. The photos. They were on the wall beside a dresser. Sonarika, her laughter caught in a frozen moment, her head thrown back. And Vikram, his arm possessively around her waist, both of them sun-kissed and smiling in some beachside shack. The same photo from Vikram’s Instagram, the one Hemant had stared at until his vision blurred. It was here. Mocking him. A monument to his failure.
A low, feminine giggle drifted from deeper within the villa. Her laugh. A sound that once lit up his world now sent a spear of ice through his gut. He moved as if pulled by a sinister string, his feet silent on the floor. The hallway opened into a spacious living area, and beyond that, an open gallery faced the roaring sea. And there he was.
Vikram.
Lounging in a low-slung chair, his legs propped on the gallery railing, wearing nothing but a pair of tight red boxers. The same arrogant, relaxed posture from the Bali picture. He was gazing at the horizon, a satisfied sigh leaving his lips as a small smile played on them. Hemant stood frozen, but Vikram showed no reaction. He was a ghost here.
The click of a door. Hemant’s head snapped to the right.
The bathroom door opened, and steam billowed out, carrying her scent—jasmine and vanilla. Sonarika stepped out, a vision that shattered him anew. She wore only a large, crumpled linen shirt, clearly Vikram’s. It drowned her frame, the hem brushing her mid-thigh, but the damp fabric clung to every curve, outlining the swell of her breasts, the peak of her nipples, the dip of her waist. Her dark hair was wet, trailing over her shoulders. A soft, sated smile was on her lips, her eyes fixed with adoration on the man on the gallery.
She walked right past Hemant, close enough to touch, and didn’t even glance his way.
"Still seeing stars from last night" she murmured, her voice husky as she approached Vikram.
Vikram turned, his smile widening.
"Is that so?"
She leaned into him, and he effortlessly pulled her onto his lap, her legs straddling him. The shirt rode up, exposing the smooth skin of her thighs.
"Mmm. I can still feel you" she whispered, nuzzling his neck.
"I can still feel your cum inside me. I might be risking a pregnancy, you know"
Vikram’s hands slid under the shirt, palms smoothing over her bare back.
"It’s not a risk, Sonarika. It’s a promise. I want my seed to grow in you. I want to see you round with our child"
Hemant’s knees threatened to buckle. He watched, invisible and ignored, as his wife settled more comfortably on her lover’s lap, a intimate shift of her hips.
"And Karan?" Sonarika asked, a trace of hesitation in her voice.
"He’s part of you, so he’s welcome. But a child… our child…"
Vikram’s voice dropped to a possessive rumble.
"That will bind you to me in a way nothing else can"
Sonarika laughed, a low, thrilling sound.
"You did more than a decent job last night if that was your plan"
"The plan" Vikram said, his hands tightening on her
"Isn’t done yet"
In one fluid motion, he stood, holding her easily in that straddling position, her legs wrapped around his waist. He carried her, her laughter mixing with the crash of waves, away from the gallery and towards the bedroom. Hemant followed, a prisoner to his own torment.
Vikram laid her gently on the wide, rumpled bed. He stood over her, his gaze hungry. With deliberate slowness, he began undoing the buttons of the shirt she wore. One. Two. Three. The fabric fell open, revealing her naked body, still glistening with droplets from her shower.
A low groan escaped Vikram. He didn’t wait. He descended, his mouth latching onto one peaked nipple, sucking it deep into the heat of his mouth.
"Mmmhmmmm!"
Sonarika gasped, her back arching off the bed. Her hands flew to his head, fingers tangling in his hair.
"Yes…suck it baby....I wish I was lactating right now!"
Hemant watched, nausea and rage warring in his throat, as Vikram worshipped her body. His mouth moved from one breast to the other, sucking, licking, nipping with a fervor Hemant had never possessed. Sonarika writhed beneath him, her whimpers and moans painting the air, a symphony of pleasure that was a dagger in Hemant’s soul. Vikram’s hands were everywhere—kneading her breasts, skimming down her ribs, gripping her hips.
Finally, Vikram stood, shucking his red boxers in one impatient motion.
Hemant’s eyes were dragged downward. His dick. Thick, heavy, and already fully erect, it stood proudly against Vikram’s abdomen. A brutal, undeniable truth. It was bigger. Much bigger. A hollow understanding opened inside Hemant. Of course.
Vikram positioned himself between Sonarika’s splayed thighs. He used the head of his cock to tease her, spreading the slickness he found there, circling her clit until she was begging,
"Please, Vikram… now"
He pushed forward.
Hemant saw it in agonizing detail. The broad crown pressed, stretched, and then disappeared into her, inch by relentless inch. Sonarika’s groan was one of profound satisfaction, her head pressing back into the pillows, eyes fluttering shut.
"Ahhhh… you stretch me so full…"
Then Vikram began to move. No gentle buildup. This was a claiming. He set a deep, punishing rhythm from the start, his hips pistoning, driving into her with a force that made the bedframe creak. Each thrust was a full-body commitment, his muscular back and buttocks clenching with the effort.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
The wet, rhythmic sound of their joining filled the room, underscored by the relentless crash of his balls against her skin. Hemant could only stare, his own body cold, as his wife was taken with a raw, animalistic passion she had never shown him.
"Fuck, you feel incredible"
Vikram grunted, his pace never faltering. Sonarika’s moans climbed higher, becoming screams that she bit into her own fist.
"hgghh.....hgghhh....It’s… it’s going to be a girl...hghhh"
Vikram moaned, his thrusts becoming erratic, deeper.
"Ahhh.....ahhh....W-what?" Sonarika panted, her hips meeting his with equal ferocity.
"gghhhh....hhghh....The baby......Our baby.....It’ll be a girl....rrghhh....ghhhh"
"Ahh....No" Sonarika gasped, her eyes flying open to lock with his.
"Mhmmm......ahhhmm......its a boy…....as handsome as his father.....ahhhh"
Vikram slammed into her, a final, brutal drive that buried him to the hilt. He held there, his entire body rigid.
"hghh......hhggg......Doesn’t matter…whoever it is.....… will be beautiful because it will be our's......hgghhh.....nngghh......"
Hemant saw it happen. He saw Vikram’s buttocks clench tight, saw the thick vein on his shaft pulse violently. A guttural, triumphant roar tore from Vikram’s throat as he came. Hemant could almost see it—the hot, copious surge of semen traveling up that thick length and pumping deep into Sonarika’s womb. Claiming her. Fertilizing her. Making the fantasy they’d whispered about a tangible, liquid reality right before his eyes.
Vikram collapsed on her, spent, but kept himself buried inside her.
"Can’t wait to be a parent" He mumbled into her neck.
Sonarika wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding him tight.
"Can’t wait to be pregnant with your child"
A raw, wounded sound ripped from Hemant’s chest. A wail of absolute desolation. He fell to his knees, the world dissolving into black nothingness around the image of their entangled, satisfied bodies.
Hemant spasmed awake, a choked gasp tearing from his throat.
He was in his bed. His bed. In the stark, silent master bedroom of his new villa at Silver Beach, Mumbai. Morning light streamed through his own windows. The air was still, empty.
He was alone.
He touched his face. His cheeks were wet with dried, salty tracks. He had been crying in his sleep.
For a long time, he just lay there, the ghost-sounds of her pleasure and their promises echoing in the hollow of his skull. The dream played on a loop behind his eyes—Vikram’s powerful thrusts, Sonarika’s ecstatic face, the vulgar, intimate slap of skin, the final, devastating release.
Slowly, he pushed himself up. He walked to the expansive bathroom, its surfaces cold and impersonal. He faced the mirror.
The man who stared back had red-rimmed eyes, shadowed with pain. But as he looked, as the dream’s venom coursed through him, something shifted. The fragility in his own gaze burned away, scorched by a new, cold fire. He saw the definition in his shoulders, the result of punishing months at the gym. The hard line of his jaw. This was his body now. Not the body of a cuckolded husband, but a weapon he had forged in his private hell.
The weakness was a relic. The heartbreak was fuel.
A grim, determined calm settled over him. Sonarika would not get to write the end of his story. Her betrayal, her lover, the ghost of the life they’d planned… they were chapters he was closing.
He splashed cold water on his face, washing away the last of the dream-tears. He picked up his phone, his movements deliberate. He scrolled to a contact saved from a lifetime ago, when he got a taste of the elite lifestyle of the city.
Roxy. The call connected on the second ring.
"Morning, Mr.Kumar" Roxy said, voice smooth as aged whiskey. Hemant didn’t waste time.
"I need an appointment....for a makeover" he said, calm and certain.
"Makeover?"
"Yeah , an overhaul for the Elite circle. Make me at my best presentation"
"Hell yes. I am really looking forward to work with you soon!"
Roxy laughed, intrigued, and booked him an appointment for the morning in few hours.
Mumbai welcomed him with its unapologetic chaos as Hemant stepped into Roxy’s parlour, a posh sanctuary tucked into the city’s beating heart. Glass, steel, and velvet—every surface spoke of reinvention. Roxy was already prepared: racks of tailored jackets, trays of accessories, a palette of colors that promised dominance rather than decoration.
"So tell me Mr.Kumar...what do you expect from the makeover?"
"I want you to enhance whatever qualities I have in my appearance. And make me the point of everyone's eyes. You used to say I had the charm of the best celebrities....so make me one!"
Hemant said, meeting Roxy’s eyes in the mirror. There was no arrogance in his tone—only inevitability. Roxy’s grin widened.
"Say no more" he replied, already circling him like a sculptor assessing stone.
The scissors moved with intent. Hair fell away, disciplined and refined, then reshaped into something sharper. A rough auburn dye was layered in—subtle but commanding, catching the light like burnished copper. Hemant’s physique emerged clean and undeniable, the posture of a man who had once been a peak sportsman and remembered exactly how it felt to own space.
Roxy finished with a final adjustment and stepped back, whistling low.
"I recommend you to avoid Bollywood parties" he said, half-joking, half-serious.
"Because if Aditya Chopra spots you in one of those parties. He might launch you at his next big project!"
Hemant smiled, slow and confident, seeing himself anew—not reborn, but reclaimed. As he walked out into Mumbai’s pulse, the city seemed to acknowledge him. The past no longer clung to his shoulders; it sharpened his stride. Hemant Kumar wasn’t running from heartbreak—he was rising above it, dressed for conquest, ready for the chapter where nothing was taken from him again.
THAT AFTERNOON
The country club felt heavier at noon, as if the sun pressed down not with warmth but with expectation. Hemant sat alone beneath a cream umbrella, a glass of untouched iced water sweating beside him. This place had once been effortless—laughter, teasing glances, afternoons that drifted into evenings. Now it was a stage without its co-star.
He had frequented this club with Pranitha. Oddly enough at this moment , he definitely missed her , given his circumstances. Pranitha wasn’t here yet. She was still in Amsterdam, commitments binding her to runways and boardrooms, continents away from the gravity of his silence.
Hemant scrolled through his phone, thumb moving on instinct. Media sites bloomed across the screen—Pranitha at a fashion event, radiant and assured, standing beside actress Alia Bhatt. Cameras loved them both. Her own profile echoed the same story: smiles, champagne flutes, a world spinning forward without him. Hemant was aware about her 'exotic' life. He remembered the old rumors , of how Pranitha was involved with a famous actress. And now seeing her upclose images with Alia made his mind go to a place that made up images in his head for few moments. He exhaled slowly, a dull ache settling in his chest. Even Pranitha, the one presence that had softened the edges of his days, was gone for now. Tamanna has taken Shraddha to a vacation trip to Germany. Leaving Hemant alone in his own sufferings.
His mind played with him next, dragging him back into familiar nightmares. Sonarika appeared, as she always did in his dreams, never alone. Vikram was there too—too real, too close. Every dream stitched them tighter together, as if his subconscious refused to grant him the mercy of distance.
Hemant rose and walked toward the exterior deck, overlooking the city. The club’s massive swimming pool shimmered under the sun. Once, long ago and not far enough away, he had met Pranitha here, a sight he can never forget as she was in a bikini, bold and grace. Today, a young couple occupied the water, playful and intimate, their ease cutting deeper than any insult.
His mind twisted the scene without warning. The couple’s faces blurred, reshaped, and suddenly it was Vikram and Sonarika in the pool. He heard Vikram’s voice clearly now.
"Priya" he said casually.
"What?" Sonarika turned, confused.
"If we have a girl, I want to name her Priya" Vikram smiled.
Sonarika’s face softened, and she asked.
"And if it’s a boy?"
Vikram shrugged.
"Hadn’t thought about it. You tell me" She paused, then said quietly.
"Akash. I’ve liked that name for a while. It suits you—dashing, bold"
Vikram laughed, pulling her closer.
"I wanted a girl" he said.
"But Akash isn’t bad. Let him be free and dedicated like his mother"
Sonarika kissed him, sunlight fracturing around them.
The vision snapped apart. The pool was just a pool again. The couple were strangers. Hemant’s hands gripped the railing as he realized he had hallucinated the entire exchange, his mind filling in a future he feared but could no longer deny.
Standing there, facing the skyline, the visions didn’t feel like torture anymore. They felt prophetic. Sonarika would move to Goa soon. She would live that life—sunlit, complete, unburdened by the wreckage she left behind. It would become real for her.
Hemant wiped his eyes quickly, embarrassed by tears no one was watching him shed. The city sprawled endlessly before him, indifferent and alive. His mind forged a future, Sonarika would build a perfect life with her new man. And he—Hemant Kumar—would be left to assemble meaning from the fragments of family still standing, carrying the weight of a love that hadn’t survived, and a future that suddenly felt very, very quiet.
FEW HOURS LATER AT YOD INDUSTRIES
YOD Industries felt different that afternoon—alive in a way Hemant hadn’t noticed in weeks. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his corner office, glinting off steel models of armored vehicles and framed patents lining the walls. His phone buzzed softly on the desk. Kamya’s monthly progress report. He opened it, scanning numbers that didn’t just look good—they looked historic.
Revenue curves were climbing at a near-vertical angle. The defense manufacturing wing was surging, the newly built weaponized ATVs drawing praise for their agility and modular fire systems. The BTRs YOD had recently submitted were being spoken of in briefings, not just reports—quiet admiration from the Indian Army, the kind that meant repeat orders. Supply chains had expanded, new vendors onboarding weekly, demand pushing harder than projections had dared to assume. For the first time in days, Hemant leaned back and smiled without forcing it.
Another notification followed, this one carrying more weight. ANVIL. He read the message twice, then a third time. YOD’s latest invention—the EMP-protected digital visor helmets—had not only impressed the private military contractor, but had caught the attention of BLACKROCK, a global defense giant , the very corporation that was responsible for his second birth. They planned to formally brand the product with YOD’s name. Not a subcontract. Not a footnote. A signature. YOD Industries, etched permanently into a flagship defense product.
There was a knock at the door before the thought could fully settle. Vaibhav and Kamya walked in first, both wearing expressions they clearly couldn’t hide. Behind them came Raquel, poised and smiling, confidence following him in his tailored jacket. All three greeted him at once, warmth filling the room. Hemant noticed the energy immediately. This wasn’t routine good news—this was celebration-level good.
He raised an eyebrow, amused.
"What's the occasion?"
Before anyone else could answer, Raquel stepped forward, eyes bright.
"Bhaijaan..." he said, voice proud
"The May cover of Fortune magazine is out"
He placed the magazine on his desk and gently slid it toward him. Hemant’s breath caught—not in shock, but in recognition. The image stared back at him: sharp, composed, powerful. The photoshoot from weeks ago, another one of Roxy’s vision executed to perfection. He looked regal, commanding, dressed in a business vest over a tieless satin shirt, striped vest and pants cutting a silhouette that spoke of authority without apology. And above it all, in bold lettering, a tagline that felt like a verdict rather than marketing:
A NEW KING ON THE RISE.
He flipped through the pages slowly. The article traced YOD’s journey from its fragile beginnings—him, a former IT professional daring to cross into weapons manufacturing—to its evolution into security appliances, advanced defense systems, and now global relevance. But the focus wasn’t just the company. It was him. His discipline. His resilience. His refusal to stay confined to one identity. An empire in the making, rooted deep, engineered to last.
Hemant closed the magazine and looked up.
"None of this" he said calmly.
"Exists without the people who believed in it" He gestured around the room.
"My workers. My engineers. My partners. And my clients—who trusted us before we had proof"
Kamya laughed softly.
"Sir" she said.
"This is your moment , not YODs. I think this time the recognition should be yours”
Vaibhav nodded in agreement.
"Thank you for that" Hemant replied, a faint smirk breaking through.
"But I was confident and resiliant enough because I had a good set of people I can keep my faith around with"
Raquel smiled wider.
"Bhaijaan, you’ve brought out your best part for the world to see. This cover proves it. YOD isn’t just a weapons company anymore"
Hemant stood and walked toward the far end of the office, where a cloth-covered frame rested against the wall. With a single motion, he pulled it away. Beneath it, bold and unmistakable, was a new banner—clean lines, modern typography, undeniable intent:
YOD ENTERPRISE
He turned back to them, eyes steady, conviction unshaken.
"We’ve outgrown the old definition" he said.
"This is our next chapter!"
(CHAPTER TO BE CONTD)
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